Seeing the Stars
by Harkpad
Summary: Steve and Clint run into each other on a balcony of the Tower in the middle of the night. "You act all alone and old and timid and quiet like you're the only one who's messed up! Like you have to face every night by yourself, alone with that book or your bike. You're not the only one who's lost everything in the last two months." Clint/Phil Clint/Steve pre-slash? maybe.


**Seeing the Stars**

The night air was cool on Steve's face as he slid the door to the balcony shut behind him. He looked up to the black sky above and wondered if maybe a ride out of the city wouldn't feel better tonight. At least he could see some stars that way. He was tired, though. Not tired enough to sleep yet, but tired enough that a ride might not be a good idea.

Instead, he sat down on a reclining deck chair and pulled out his sketchbook and pencils, using the light from the room behind him to draw. It wasn't ideal, but as he sat there and watched as another profile of Hawkeye appeared on the page, Hawkeye on the range in rapt concentration and shoulder muscles taut, he knew the lighting was good enough.

He never knew who was going to appear on the page. He had filled up two sketchbooks since the Avengers had assembled, and they were filled with people, bikes, cars, crowds, hillsides, villains, and even rooms in the tower. Drawing was what his hands did when he didn't have anything else for them to do.

He was engrossed in getting the bow right when he heard the soft noise from the corner of the balcony. He probably wouldn't have heard it were it not for the serum, but he did. His pencil paused above the page and he turned slightly to see if anyone was there. He grinned and turned back to the page.

"Evening, Clint," He said.

Clint sighed and came and sat down in the chair next to him. "Don't you ever sleep, Cap?"

"Not if I can help it," Steve said. He focused on his drawing and felt Clint's stare, hoping it would abate soon enough. It didn't. "What?" He asked. "You were skulking around up here in your jeans and t-shirt at two in the morning. Why aren't you sleeping?"

Clint laughed. "Avoiding sleep myself, I suppose." He sighed and leaned back, stretching out in the chair and looking up into the night. "There aren't any stars in the city. I never get used to that."

"Did you ever live where you could see them?" Steve asked. He'd read Hawkeye's file, knowing that he had lived in Iowa for a while as a kid, but he wasn't sure where or what kind of life the archer had actually lived. The quiet that followed his question made him wonder if he should have asked.

"Yeah," Clint said, after a few moments. "I grew up in Iowa. Plenty of places to see the stars out there." He paused for a moment and added, "Not that I looked up much."

"I grew up in Brooklyn," Steve said. "Not much in the way of stars. But I remember Germany and the mountains, and boy, there were some pretty nights out there."

"Right. I bet." Clint sat for a minute and then said, "I remember a couple missions to South America where I had to sit in a tree for a few nights – saw the Southern Cross and everything. That was pretty cool."

"You've done more missions than I have, I think. I sure never got to go south. South wasn't anything back then."

Clint sat up and Steve saw him stare for a moment.

"What?" He asked.

Clint leaned forward. "I'm older than you, you know."

"Sort of."

"No, I'm older than you."

"I'm ninety-four," Steve said drily.

"No, you're not."

Steve felt the words pierce him, and he didn't know why. Clint sounded angry, and Steve didn't understand.

"You've been _living_ for twenty-four years," Clint said. "Twenty-four. I'm older than you."

Steve took a deep breath. He still didn't really know what was going on. "Okay. You're older than me."

Clint stared at him for a moment and then wordlessly leaned back on the chair again. Steve sat still, but after a few minutes he picked up his pencils again and continued his portrait. The bow came together quickly now. He moved back to the face and added some shadow, an angle, a darkened eye.

"Can I see what you're drawing?" Clint said quietly.

Steve thought for a moment and then leaned forward and showed him.

"I look mad," Clint said.

"You are mad."

"No, I'm. . ." Clint sighed. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Why?"

Steve watched as Clint stood and walked over to the balcony railing, gripping it tightly with both hands and leaning back, looking at the starless sky.

"I know you've lost practically everything," Clint said. "I get that, and it sucks for you." He took a breath. "And I know you're messed up from it. And from whatever happened before you crashed. I see that. But," and he turned to look at Steve. "But I'm older than you. And bad shit has happened to me. And to Tony and to Bruce and to Natasha. Hell, I think some bad shit even happened to Thor before he came. And we're all older than you." He glanced away and turned back around to face the city.

"Okay. You're all older than me. So what?" Steve said, his voice getting cold.

"Jesus, Steve! You act all alone and old and timid and quiet like you're the only one who's messed up! Like you have to face every night by yourself, alone with that book or your bike. You're not the only one who's lost everything in the last two months! And you're not old."

They stared at each other for a few moments and Steve stood up and joined Clint at the railing. "Why were you out here?"

"What?"

"Why were you out here? You know what I'm doing with my own nights and why. Why are you avoiding sleep, too?" Steve watched as the question visibly deflated the man standing next to him. There was no answer, and Clint moved from the railing and sat down again, leaning back on the chair and wrapping his arms around his chest in a tight grip, as if Steve had punched him.

"Clint, I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me. I'm just, it's just. . . maybe if you think I don't have to go through all of this alone then neither do you. You're just as quiet as I am. You spend nights avoiding sleep, too. I just wondered what you lost, too."

Clint looked up at him and then looked away. In a very soft voice he answered, "I lost Coulson."

Steve heard it then. He heard exactly what he felt in his own heart when he thought of Bucky and he heard the blame he felt about Bucky's death and the fear of the future without the person who made the world palatable.

He'd not heard that before from Clint. He had heard the self-blame for what Loki had done and what Clint had done while under Loki's control, but he hadn't heard the loss.

He sat down next to Clint on the same chair and put his hand on the knee Clint had pulled up to his chest. He saw wet eyes refusing to concede a tear. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you two were close."

Clint grinned and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and said, "Yeah. We were close." He drew a shaky breath and looked away again.

Steve thought for a moment. Reassurances that it wasn't his fault were things that Clint had been hearing from others for the last three weeks since the incident. He didn't really need that from Steve.

Suddenly Steve remembered something, though. He reached over and pulled his sketchbook out, rifling the pages back toward the beginning of the book. That book had been started just before the incident with Loki. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

He carefully tugged the paper out of the sketchbook and handed it to Clint, who took it, startled. Steve heard a sharp intake of breath as Clint looked down and really saw it. Steve smiled. "He was kind to me. I was looking forward to getting to know him, you know. I had a good feeling about him."

He watched as Clint just stared at the drawing, taking in the sharp lines of the suit contrasted with the easy smile on the face and the dark eyes looking with strength at whatever he was seeing. After a moment he set the drawing down next to the chair and pulled his knees up again, resting his chin on his knees, and suddenly Steve saw his age.

"He _was_ kind. He was looking forward to getting to know you, too. Excited about it, really." With a shaky voice, Clint added, "When he heard that they'd found you he wouldn't shut up about you for three days straight. The only reason I stopped having to hear about you was a mission I had to go on. I got back and he picked up babbling about you as if I hadn't left." He smiled at Steve.

A light went on in Steve's head and he closed his eyes as he realized it from the warm tone of Clint's voice. "You were lovers," he said, feeling the real weight of his friend's loss for the first time.

Clint nodded and looked down at the picture again. "Yes. And after three years of living together and being in love, I helped the madman who killed him get into the ship. But you know what?" he asked Steve.

"What?"

"He wouldn't have blamed me."

"No one should, Clint," Steve said gravely.

"But they do. And I do. But if he were here he'd make that go away," Clint said, his voice heavy and ragged.

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Clint stared at the drawing and Steve thought about love and loss and age and time. "The people I loved most died two months ago," he said. "There was Bucky and Peggy and they were the center of my world. That center is gone now, and I think you know how I feel."

Clint looked up at him and nodded. "That's what I was trying to tell you. That's it."

Steve moved to the chair Clint was sitting on, careful of the drawing, which he picked up and sat down on the table next to the chair. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but it felt right, so he put his arm out and gestured to his own shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, Clint sat up and then leaned into Steve's offered embrace.

"Maybe during the next bout of insomnia we can ride out to the hills and see the stars," Steve said quietly.

Clint nodded. "That sounds good. Phil taught me some things about them. I could teach you if you want."

"If you think I'm old enough to learn," Steve said with a smile.


End file.
